


A Winter's Day

by sweetvillain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Christmas, Dysfunctional Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-21
Updated: 2010-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-13 22:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetvillain/pseuds/sweetvillain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and young Sherlock come home for the holidays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Winter's Day

The house was quiet when Mycroft let himself in. The housekeeper, a very meticulous woman, would have kept to her schedule and left an hour ago. Mummy had said she would be busy that night with her club, and Father... he was likely to come home very late from the City even on Christmas eve, so why would he bother to be here on December the 20th to greet his son?

Not that Mycroft needed his parents to be there, he had always been very independent and at age 24 he had the keys to the kingdom in some very literal senses of the phrase. If the empty house felt a little bit forlorn tonight, it was just a passing fancy brought on by winter darkness. He most certainly didn't need a hug from his mother, or to hear his little brother's enthusiastic steps bounding down the stairs to greet him with a recounting of his latest discovery or experiment.

Only some small wall-mounted lamps in the hall were lit, and Mycroft wandered idly into the dark living room. The large Christmas tree with its shimmering lights was beautiful, in a glossy and impersonal way. Put up by the help and possibly one of Mummy's designer friends, most likely - no one in the Holmes family had ever shown any interest in decorating for the holiday season, except for keeping up appearances for societal reasons.

"You took your time", came a voice from one of the plush armchairs by the unlit fireplace. The tone was one of carefully rehearsed ennui and disaffectedness.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft frowned at the listlessly slumped figure of his brother. "Why are you sitting here in the dark?"

"Just thinking", Sherlock said, lighting a table lamp. "As I was saying, you're late. I see you stopped to donate to the Salvation Army again. Really, Mycroft, I would have thought you'd go for something more discreet than kettles at street corners. Or is your conscience bothering you perhaps, the Machiavellian career not sitting so well after all? Do you find it easy to start a war with one hand and dole out meagre humanitarian help with the other?"

"That's not -"

"Would you like to throw in an estimate on how much I don't care?"

"That's you and every other seventeen-year old I've ever met. Now stay there. Don't pull one of your vanishing acts, I'll just go put away my coat and umbrella."

Sherlock didn't seem content to let him go that easily. He narrowed his eyes at Mycroft's dearest and only accessory. "Yes, what is it with that umbrella, really? An affectation? If you want to avoid drawing attention to yourself, surely twirling that ridiculous contraption indoors and in clement weather isn't the way to go about it. You look like a cast member in second-rate musical theatre."

Truth be told, Mycroft wasn't altogether clear on why he had adopted the damned thing. He had been fond of expensive suits even as a teenager, and downright foppish in his college days, with his colourful waistcoats and luxurious ties, but these days he had to maintain a low profile and that required a certain amount of dressing down. Perhaps the umbrella was a subconscious act of rebellion, very much an affectation in the sense that Mycroft needed to allow himself this one thing out of the ordinary.

"My dear Sherlock", he said, tapping his brother on the knee with the umbrella, "everything is an affectation, you should know that by now. Furthermore, don't you have school left this semester?"

Sherlock snorted with mostly well-practised derision but just enough guilt for his brother to detect it. "Got suspended." He fidgeted a little under Mycroft's scrutiny, eventually continuing because he knew his brother would find out anyway, one way or another. "Drugs. It's not like I was dealing, but the blokes who were ratted me out for making my own experimental substances in the chem lab. Afraid of competition, I suppose, and sadly not clever enough to know that I could get them suspended just as easily."

Mycroft furrowed his brow and without really noticing it he was leaning on the umbrella for support. He was aware of the hedonistic and addictive impulses that ran in the family. After bidding farewell to his favourite tailor he had mostly been directing his cravings towards food, and that had seemed harmless enough at first. Not so much anymore, after two changes of warddrobe size and a doctor's warning about blood pressure. He was more worried about his brother, however. At seventeen Sherlock already bore signs of indulgences that he should have been steering well away from. Signs that would not be visible to just anyone yet, but they were glaringly obvious to Mycroft now that he took a proper look at his spindly-thin brother in the lamplight.

Sherlock usually basked in attention of any kind, but didn't seem to appreciate it from someone who could read him as easily as he could read others. His eyes narrowed slightly like they always did when he couldn't quite figure something out and found it uncomfortable. "I'm surprised you hadn't snooped that out for yourself, anyway. Or are you just pretending you didn't know? No need to, on my account."

"I do get copies of your report cards sent in. You seemed to be doing perfectly well, grade-wise, so I saw no point in "snooping" any further."

"Of course I do well", Sherlock spat, like a good report card was an insult to his intelligence. "Everything's so simple it hurts. I breeze through it just to spite the teachers who hate me, and forget most of the useless drivel as soon as I can afterwards."

"Yes, but drugs, Sherlock, really? Can't you find some better way to occupy your time? I know you must be dreadfully bored but sometimes one must grin and bear it, you know, to get on in life."

Sherlock's mouth dropped open and the indignation certainly wasn't feigned. "To get on in life! What is there, out there, that I would want to grin and bear it for, as you so succinctly put it? You and Mummy said it would make things better if I skipped a few grades, but my classmates are still idiots. They were idiot children and will go on to become idiot grown-ups and produce more idiot children, it's a vicious circle."

"Sherlock." Mycroft paused and then sighed - he knew quite well there was nothing he could say that his brother would take as helpful or even remotely acceptable. Teenagers in general could be so jaded and cynical, that was business as usual, but Sherlock in one of his moods had seemed world-weary before he was old enough to articulate it properly.

Before Mycroft could formulate anything that might at least get listened to, instead of just being bounced right off his brother's shield of black resentfulness, Sherlock got up and briskly strode across the room. Mycroft stopped him with a hand to his shoulder.

"Sherlock?" ...you're not planning on running away for Christmas again, are you? You know it'll upset Mummy."

"Good." Sherlock shrugged himself free of Mycroft's grip and grinned sourly. "This place could do with livening up a bit."

Mycroft raised his voice just enough to keep Sherlock from leaving the room. "Wallowing in your antisocial tendencies may suit you just fine now, but trust me, it's a hard habit to break and one day you'll find you wish you could."

"That's very unlikely. Must you be so tedious about everything? It's probably some kind of deluded childhood nostalgia on my part but I remember when you used to be more fun." Sherlock was refusing to look at him now, and Mycroft couldn't quite decide if he was simply imagining the undercurrent of genuine disappointment in his voice.

"Sherlock. Please. You can insult me in every inventive way possible, throw mashed potatoes at me during dinner if you must, but for Mummy's sake stay here." Her sake, and mine, Mycroft thought, but it was useless to say it out loud.

Sherlock stared at the wall intently for a few moments more, poised to fight or flee, but then he drew a deep breath and visibly relaxed. "Fine. I'll stay if you refrain from staging any feeble interventions while we're here. And you'll wear a silly hat at Christmas dinner."

"Agreed", Mycroft huffed, trying not to let his relief show too much.

Sherlock seemed to take this as his cue to exit, practically bolting out of the room. Mycroft followed him into the hallway but halted at the bottom of the stairs, swinging his umbrella while he was lost in thought.

"Mycroft?" came a soft call from somewhere in the darkness above him.

"Yes?"

"The umbrella... it's good."

"... you think so?" Mycroft turned the thing in this hand appraisingly.

"Oh yes. Gives you balance. And gravitas - not that you need any more weightiness in your life."

There was what could only be described as a snigger, equal parts amusement and sarcastic glee, and then footsteps bounding quickly up the carpeted stairs.

Mycroft smiled in the dimness of the opulent hallway.

Nostalgia was, of course, merely an erraneous thought pattern. Maudlin and useless.

He'd have to procure some Christmas crackers and ensure there would be at least two funny hats.


End file.
